“’We have sent unto you our Brother Boniface, and appointed him your bishop, that he may teach you the only true faith, and baptize you, and lead you back from the ways of error to the path of salvation.  Hearken to him in all things like a father.  Bow your hearts to his teaching.  He comes not for earthly gain, but for the gain of your souls.  Depart from evil works.  Worship not the false gods, for they are devils.  Offer no more bloody sacrifices, nor eat the flesh of horses, but do as our Brother Boniface commands you.  Build a house for him that he may dwell among you, and a church where you may offer your prayers to the only living God, the Almighty King of Heaven.’”

It was a splendid message:  proud, strong, peaceful, loving.  The dignity of the words imposed mightily upon the hearts of the people.  They were quieted, as men who have listened to a lofty strain of music.

“Tell us, then,” said Gundhar, “what is the word that thou bringest to us from the Almighty.  What is thy counsel for the tribes of the woodland on this night of sacrifice?”

“This is the word, and this is the counsel,” answered Winfried.  “Not a drop of blood shall fall to-night, save that which pity has drawn from the breast of your princess, in love for her child.  Not a life shall be blotted out in the darkness to-night; but the great shadow of the tree which hides you from the light of heaven shall be swept away.  For this is the birth-night of the white Christ, son of the All-Father, and Saviour of mankind.  Fairer is He than Baldur the Beautiful, greater than Odin the Wise, kinder than Freya the Good.  Since He has come to earth the bloody sacrifices must cease.  The dark Thor, on whom you vainly call, is dead.  Deep in the shades of Niffelheim he is lost forever.  His power in the world is broken.  Will you serve a helpless god?  See, my brothers, you call this tree his oak.  Does he dwell here?  Does he protect it?”

A troubled voice of assent rose from the throng.  The people stirred uneasily.  Women covered their eyes.  Hunrad lifted his head and muttered hoarsely, “Thor! take vengeance!  Thor!”

Winfried beckoned to Gregor.  “Bring the axes, thine and one for me.  Now, young woodsman, show thy craft!  The king-tree of the forest must fall, and swiftly, or all is lost!”

The two men took their places facing each other, one on each side of the oak.  Their cloaks were flung aside, their heads bare.  Carefully they felt the ground with their feet, seeking a firm grip of the earth.  Firmly they grasped the axe-helves and swung the shining blades.

“Tree-god!” cried Winfried, “art thou angry?  Thus we smite thee!”

“Tree-god!” answered Gregor, “art thou mighty?  Thus we fight thee!”

Clang! clang! the alternate strokes beat time upon the hard, ringing wood.  The axe-heads glittered in their rhythmic flight, like fierce eagles circling about their quarry.

The broad flakes of wood flew from the deepening gashes in the sides of the oak.  The huge trunk quivered.  There was a shuddering in the branches.  Then the great wonder of Winfried’s life came to pass.